Lost Along The Way
by jasperose
Summary: 'cause we're going to the chapel and we're gonna get hit by a truck. faberry, 3x14. because she's a lot more than that and you need to let her know.
1. Chapter 1

_hi! i'm super new to this whole 'writing faberry' thing, but holy chemistry batman so let's give it a go. spoilers up to 3x14._

_part one, let me know what you think._

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><p><strong>Part One.<br>**hold my hand as i'm lowered._  
><em>

You're not sure when you got to the hospital. Your head is pounding and your eyes are stinging and your hands—_god, _your hands won't stop shaking. And you were at City Hall and you were going to get married you had your dress you had your shoes and you finally got your hair just right but not anymore. Suddenly you're in the waiting room of the hospital and the white of the walls is rivaling your wedding dress and _this is not how it's supposed to be_ _happening. _

Your breaths are coming out in strange quick pants and shaky, watery inhales. You feel someone's arms around your shoulders but you couldn't say whose. And then your chest feels like someone punched through your sternum and squeezed your heart until it exploded because you know _exactly _whose arms you _do _want around you and that's just all sorts of wrong and—_stop it_.

The doctors haven't said anything yet. You're not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Santana was shouting in Spanish earlier, but now she's quiet against Brittany's side. Everyone else is sitting in the hard-backed chairs staring at nothing and you're pretty sure you know exactly what they're seeing. You think it's the same thing you're seeing, and you wish you weren't because it breaks your heart and collapses your lungs and that arm around your shoulders is so damn heavy.

Finn looks hurt when you shrug out from under him, but you don't care, and you think maybe that's worse.

Nobody stops you as you race from the waiting room. You're glad, because your throat is tight and your chest hurts and you don't think you can form words right now (or ever again). It's sunny outside. You squint and think maybe this could be like one of those metaphors you're always talking about and maybe the sun shining is like that Beatles song and maybe this isn't as tragic and crushing as you think it is because you always were a drama queen, right?

Metaphors are important.

The cement is warm and hard and it scratches your palms when you sit down. You don't mind, instead dragging them against the pavement again and again until the sound of your breathing is drowned out by the rhythmic sound of scraping skin.

The sun goes down.

Your daddies find you, and they hand you a bag with a change of clothes and send you to "get out of that dress." You're happy to oblige, because it's suffocating you, each thread wrapping itself around your throat until the shaky breaths turn into pained gargles and your vision blots.

They brought you your _Wicked _hoody and a pair of jeans from one of your Glee performances. You sigh and reach to undo the buttons, but then you remember, oh yeah, Brittany and Tina had helped you button the dress and you can't reach and now you're trapped in the dress and it's too much it's so white you want it off of you but how?

You don't realise you had started crying again until a gentle knock at the stall door pulls your attention from the dungeon dress. "Rachel?" a soft, gentle voice calls, and you lunge for the latch to let Brittany in.

She whimpers when she sees you're crying and pulls you into a hug. You bury your face in the soft fabric of her cheese t-shirt and wait for the cotton to dry your tears. You feel thin fingers dancing along the buttons of your dress and suddenly you're free.

"Cool hoody," she says with a small smile, pulling your sweater over your head. You realise time is working differently now.

"Thanks," you rasp, and Brittany doesn't say anything, just pulls you back to her.

The whole Glee club stayed overnight to hear news on Quinn's condition. You don't think any of them slept (you don't think they wanted to). Puck looks like he did that time you found him at the park with bloody knuckles and a bottle of beer, the summer after sophomore year. Ms Fabray is sitting quietly in a chair next to him, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in her manicured hand. You think you know where Quinn got her incredible ability to pretend from.

Brittany's still holding your hand and you're glad, because as soon as you enter the waiting room, Finn is in front of you and reaching for you with his big hands and rough palms and you don't want that. You shuffle closer to Brittany's side and avoid his puppy-dog eyes, and Brittany pats your head and tells him, "I'm gonna take care of her because she's a broken unicorn and your hands are too big."

Finn just gulps and nods jerkily, standing in the middle of the room until Kurt grabs his hand and pulls him back into a seat. Everyone is lost, you realise, and it's almost comforting until you remember the whys and the hows, and then it just hurts like a bruise you keep hitting against the corners of tables and it won't heal it just gets bigger and bigger.

It's not sunny today.

ooo

You're going to the chapel and Rachel is going to get married and that stupid song is stuck in your head. You frown and try to think of another song, _anything _to get that song and this whole debacle out of your head because—no. She's your friend and she sang that song for Finn and you're a lot more than that but not enough and now you're going to the chapel and she's going to get married.

Your phone buzzes on the seat next to you. You ignore it because you're going to the chapel and she's going to get married, and the tractor in front of you makes you nervous. After a while it turns down a dirt road and you speed up, the stupid song still bouncing around in your head. Your fingers flex around the wheel and you shake your head to get rid of the ringing and the what-ifs.

Your phone buzzes again and you decided what the heck, this is the rural part of town and you're the only one on the road. Rachel (who is getting married) has texted twice, and a crinkle forms between your eyes. She's demanding your presence, so you text back a quick "On my way" before hitting send and suddenly the side of your car is crumpling and glass cuts your cheek and arm and _oh my god_ what is that awful keening until you realise it's you and there's blood in your eyes and your heart is pounding in your ears and you can taste the iron and _why _does it feel like your spine is on fire and please please make that horrible screaming stop but nothing listens to you until your eyelids flutter and your head thunks against the steering wheel and the horn blares on long after you've passed out.

xxx

After forever, the doctor comes in through the doors. He looks tired, and you see a splotch of dark red on his scrubs. You think you might pass out, so you snuggle into Brittany further. Santana rubs her knee and you're happy she didn't glare at you.

Ms Fabray and Puck both stand up quickly when they see the doctor, Ms Fabray spilling her coffee on the linoleum. A barrage of "is she okay?" and "when can I see her?" and "why did it take so long?" hit the doctor and he takes a step back, rubbing his brow. Ms Fabray stops and bites her lip, and Puck runs a hand through his Mohawk again.

"Quinn is currently in the ICU. It was really touch-and-go there for a while, but we got her stabilized. Unfortunately, there was a lot of bleeding in her brain, and she hasn't woken up yet."

He kept talking, but you tuned him out because Quinn hasn't woken up yet. There was a lot of bleeding in her brain. She hasn't woken up yet and you need her to because of reasons you don't even understand yet and it makes everything hurt and you think maybe you were the one hit by a truck with the way your chest is collapsing in. Because she hasn't woken up yet, and you are all very much lost.

ooo

You're not sure where you are, but you know you're warm, and you think you might be happy. You're not certain, because it's been forever since you've been happy (one moment in a hospital bed, perfect little fingers curling around your own), but you're pretty sure this is happiness. And it's nice. And it's sunny.

Mr Schuester suggests you sing to her. It's been four days since the accident, and four days since you saw her awake and you don't think you've ever missed anything more than you miss her eyes or the curve of her eyebrow or even the way she spat your name, back when things were easier (less confusing). So you nod and try to think of something to sing to her, try to think of the most miraculous song you know. All that comes to mind is that time she sang James Brown and she was so angry. And she was so beautiful. Everything hurts.

Puck is the one to suggest Tom Waits. You're surprised, and so is everyone else (except Brittany, but you've come to expect that). So on the sixth day of No Hazel, you, Puck, and Santana stand next to her bedside table and you sing and you don't realise you're crying again until Santana squeezes your hand and you see her eyes are red-rimmed, too, and you're hit again with how lost you are. And all the world is green.

xxx

You're soft and floaty. There's a buzzing in your ears and a tightness in your chest and the happiness you were so sure about is fading into anxiety, but you're soft and you're floaty and everything is hazy. There's something you think you're forgetting, and maybe it's incredibly important (because someone was going to the chapel and they were going to get married), but maybe it's nothing. Maybe you're a lot more than that.

The buzzing in your ears is morphing and twisting and changing and—there. Familiar and soft and strong and filling your lungs with something you didn't know you needed, a breath of air you forgot how to take. It reminds you of rainy days and tiled floors and _you're the prettiest girl I've ever met _and you've gotten it back, that feeling of finally being whole. It's nice. The sun keeps shining on your face.

ooo

Nine days. Nine days and you're going crazy because everywhere you look you think you see those haunting eyes looking back at you and _were you singing to Finn? _and _you've got a bright future _and _kind of_ and it used to be enough but now it's lacking and it hurts and why can't you breathe anymore?

You haven't spoken to Finn about your aborted wedding. He seems to get it, though. His eyes are sparkly all the time and you don't feel safe in his arms because—_hurry! on my way. now or never—_they're heavy and you're lost and maybe they're dragging you down. You don't sing, not since Tom Waits and broken guitars and clenched jaws and beer at the park from summer after sophomore year. It hurts, like everything else. You find yourself dreaming of bathrooms and hard slaps and regret—so much it's tangible it tastes like grape slushie—and _you don't belong here. _You know that now. You belong where she is, because suddenly you understand what she was talking about, and you understand why your chest collapsed and why your wedding couldn't happen without her.

You're inexplicably tied to Quinn Fabray, and she's lying comatose in a hospital bed. You're tethered, in the way Finn always said he and you were, and triangles are just geometric shapes with three points, but Quinn Fabray is a lot more than that.

The rain stops its assault against your bedroom window. You think you might've seen a hint of sun, just behind the clouds. But you've been wrong before (there are three points to a triangle).

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><p><em>the title of p1 is a song by Noah and the Whale. the Tom Waits song referenced is <em>All the World is Green.

_also, whoa medical terms i know nothing so... :D_

_let me know what you thought, part 2 will hopefully be up soon._

_love forever and ever, Jasper._


	2. Chapter 2

_hi. so...wow? apparently this whole debacle was well-recieved, if the story alerts and favourites are anything to go by. and that is why BOOM part 2 is up 24 hours later! there could definitely be a part 3, if there is enough demand for it. sorry this part is so short._

_so read on!_

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><p><strong>Part 2.<br>**sleeper in the valley.

You used to believe in God.

Remember that? It seems so long ago. Your cross necklace dangled over your collarbone like a shield and sometimes you catch yourself reaching to clutch it, only to realise it's gone. It's like those phantom limbs Santana told you about one day, where people who have lost legs or arms will sometimes get an itch on a piece of them that isn't there anymore. You know how that feels. Bits of you are scattered all over. You can still feel the ache, where the pieces used to be.

Now you aren't so sure about the big G. When you were pregnant, you wanted to believe that he was up there with a divine plan and a happy ending. But when that didn't happen (thirty minutes I don't recognize you at all _I'm your daughter_) you began to think, huh. Maybe the big G isn't on my side. Maybe He isn't watching over me. And then you felt more alone than you ever had before, and you were Lucy before, so that's saying something isn't it.

And then, here's the kicker: and then _she _happened. Like a whirlwind of destruction (restoration?) she blew into your life and suddenly she was all there was. Big brown eyes and animal sweaters and a voice so big it made your chest ache but she couldn't know.

Very funny, big G.

ooo

You sit on the floor of your bedroom, your knees drawn up to your chest and your eyes on the full-page yearbook spread Quinn Fabray blackmailed out of Sue Sylvester. It's been so many days of wasted time.

You remember the first time you ever saw her. Sometimes, when your hair is still sticky with corn syrup and your eyes sting, you shut your eyes and remember that day, September of freshman year. And you smile. And everything calms.

She was new. You know you would've remembered a face like that. And she was reserved, in a way that made you so curious. But she was also untouchable, and you knew the only way you'd ever know her was from afar.

And then you think, that's the only way anyone ever knew Quinn Fabray. You hug your knees tighter. A sliver of sun warms your toes.

xxx

That anxious feeling of missing something important is tugging at your stomach. You want to get up and go because, duh, you were going to the chapel, weren't you? And what does that even mean? And why does it feel like a huge part of you is gone (tiny reaching fingers, just too far—gentle soft eyes, high school seems so big) when you're pretty sure you're whole?

Why does it feel like you're missing something important, and why won't your eyes open? This is another moment in which you're pretty sure big G has forgotten about you.

ooo

You go to the hospital so often, the nurses know you by name. It's been twelve days, and she hasn't fluttered those lashes once, which you think is a shame. Sometimes you sit and tell her about your day, or a dream you had (not the ones you wish you could say out loud, but other ones, more reasonable ones), and she lies silently and machines beep and boop and whirr and you miss her.

Silence has become a big factor in your life. You don't sing, Glee club is quiet, and even though your thoughts are screaming inside your head, everything seems slightly muffled. Like you're living a life that's only half.

You try not to think about the geometric shapes and the tethering and the reasons why, but of course, they're there. You can see them, floating just off-centre, peeking in and out of your vision. You don't want to face that yet, though, because you were going to the chapel and you were going to get married and she got _hit _by a _truck _and suddenly everything is too big. Now or never.

You think you saw a rainbow today.

xxx

You hadn't wanted to name her.

Your hazy place of happy and content has morphed into a hazy place of what-ifs and whys and where-you've-beens and you wish you could be back in the first one, because this one isn't so unconscious.

You hadn't wanted to name her, and then Puck sang that sad song that made your lungs flatten in a _whoosh_ and your mouth go dry and then _boom! _She was somebody. She was a person with feelings and a personality and a _future, _a future that didn't include you and you _hadn't wanted to name her_ but she got a name anyway. And your heart kept breaking.

You miss the hazy oblivion that only ached like the memory of a bruise, instead of this one that throbs and pulsates and beats because _don't forget _you don't belong here.

You don't belong here, and she has a name. And you always did like her smile best, when it was shy and slow and just for you (alcoves and washrooms and impassable spaces). We're kind of friends, huh.

ooo

On the thirteenth day of No Hazel, you arrive later than usual. Your car broke down and you had to call Noah to pick you up, and he had sat stoically in his seat while his knuckles whitened around the wheel and you both tried to breathe the air that was thick with sadness. He didn't come in with you. You noticed his knuckles were bruised.

Afternoon Nurse greets you at the front desk. Routines have always calmed you, like your morning regime or the incessant ticking of a clock. Easy to predict and lacking in surprise, you always felt ready and capable. And then, of course, some sort of wrench gets thrown into the machine: a faulty alarm clock, or a dead battery, or a new girl with a mysterious stare.

Or a twitching finger.

Your heart stops, then starts up double as a few gentle rays of sun peek through her cracked blinds.

xxx

Hazy is fading. You're relieved and sad, because you miss the happiness (innocent eyes and reaching hands) but you don't miss the anxious ache of something forgotten. So now, as hazy fades into blurred and blurred into unfocused, you're flailing. You miss the easiness that came with the lost. Now everything is sharp and apparent and _there_. Everything is real.

And apparently, everything is intent on _blinding _you because holy smokes that is awful and why does your mouth taste like the underside of a carpet and _what what what _is that horrible pain?

And what is that feeling in your chest, like a piece you were missing—phantom limbs, those scattered pieces you lost—has finally been sewed back in?

ooo

"You look like a Muppet. Your eyes are wide and your mouth is opening up and down but no sounds come out."

Brittany is sitting in the chair beside Quinn's bed, watching you. But really, you have no time for her strange observations, because that hand totally just moved and you think your stomach just leapt into your throat.

"Sometimes when I get tired of being human, I become a Muppet. The one that sings, duh. Lord Tubbington works the strings." She's still watching you, but she's laced her fingers with Quinn's and is rubbing her thumb over her knuckles.

"Brittany," the silence that was so overwhelming is broken and your thoughts are screaming and unmuffled and _that hand moved_ get out of the way. "Is she…?"

"Huh?" she tilts her head before glancing back at Quinn. "Oh, yeah, she's waking up. Don't you hate when you sleep for so long that you don't know what time it is and you aren't sure if you should have breakfast or lunch or maybe even dinner?"

You're not ready for this, for the triangles with three points but only one destination and the tremulous alto and the glances because she's a lot more than that but you didn't know how much until it slammed into you with the force of a truck—too soon! but it's happening anyway.

Time waits for no star, and like he said, it's now or never.

And she's on her way, right?

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><p><em>so. that happened? :D <em>

_title of p2 is a song by Laura Veirs from her album _July Flame.

_love Jasper_


	3. Chapter 3

_hiiiii. _

* * *

><p><strong>Part<strong> **3.  
><strong>i tell you all the time.

You know that unbearable sense of _almost there_? Like when you're riding in a hot stuffy car for hours and you just want to get out and stretch your legs so you ask your dad (politely, always politely) "are we there yet?" expecting that maybe this time it will be a yes, but instead you get that crushing disappointment that comes along with his resounding _NO_ and you're back to square one.

That's how you feel right now. Except you're not in a stuffy car, you don't actually know where you are. All you really know for sure is something is wrong because you shouldn't hurt this much. And you have that horrible feeling of _almost there_, but you don't know where the 'there' is and—

There's a pressure on your hand and suddenly your heartbeat slows and your almost theres turn into finallys and you forget that you're lost somewhere unknown because right now it doesn't matter. Are we there yet? The hand in yours squeezes gently and an echoing "yes, darling, we're finally home" rattles around in your head.

xxx

You're a drama queen. Some may even call you a diva. And some may go further and say you're overly dramatic and annoying, but those are just your haters and you let that roll off your back like whoa. But you don't think you're any of those things right now when you say this—this moment here—is where you're supposed to be. It's the final point in that geometric shape you've been tracing for three long years, because those fingers _moved _and those eyelids _fluttered _and the ache in your chest has grown and warmed and suddenly all you can do is stare.

Brittany is still holding Quinn's hand and watching you watch her. "Well, aren't you gonna hold her hand, Rachel?"

That is a damn good point, Brittany, well stated. You stutter-step—because _this _is the momentthose people sing and cry and write about and it's suddenly all very big—before your feet find their place and then you're at her bedside. Your cheeks are wet and your heart is pounding. Your hands won't stop shaking.

Her hand is surprisingly cold. The way your fingers lace together like the teeth of a zipper makes your tears come faster, because—well. If that's not the best thing you've ever seen in the history of the world, ivory and gold twisting together like a hurricane catching the water, chaotic and unpredictable and a force of nature. There's no place like home; but you've always known that.

ooo

There's a song going through your head, amidst the shouting pain and blurring realities. It's familiar and awful and you wish it wasn't stuck in there, but seeing as _you _don't even know how to get out, you doubt a little song could. But it bounces off the walls of your skull, rambling about chapels and marriage and _where are you?_

A strange sound rumbles up your throat and peeks past your lips, chapped and tight. The piece of home clutching your hand twitches and a gentle breath brushes your cheek, before a straw is being placed between your lips. Well, that's nice, isn't it? You think it sure is, yes, so you pull until warm water fills your mouth. Despite the warmth, the feeling definitely comes in second to best feeling ever. The first is the fingers laced through your own.

"She's not a morning person, is she?"

That sounds familiar, innocent and curious and it reminds you of red and black and secrets behind locker room doors. "Neither is Lord Tubbington, he's become dangerously dependent on caffeine."

Another strange sound comes from your throat and a sweet voice whispers into your ear, "hey sleepyhead."

Are you the sleepyhead? Why does the voice sound like it's weighed down by something unspeakable? And where _are _you?

The hand in yours rubs your knuckles and you think—nope. You really don't care right now. This is what you've been waiting for, ever since that time she told you to keep holding on and when your hands got so tired she did it for you. It's been a long wait, you think.

xxx

"We should get the doctor," you manage to say. You haven't taken your eyes off of her since that first flutter, and when her lips pursed around the straw you think you died—straight up flat-lined—and came back to life as the happiest future Broadway star in the history of the world. She's back. You're on your way.

"I'll do it. You guys have a whole lot of sweet lady kisses to catch up on." Brittany's up and at the door before you register what she said, and you feel your cheeks warm. "Oh," she adds, "If I don't come back in ten minutes, I've gotten lost and you'll need to get San to find me, okay?"

You nod, a short jerky motion, and you hear the door open and close. You're alone now—that Tiffany song is now repeating in your head and you think that's inappropriate but so right—and you don't know what to do.

"Quinn?" you ask softly, against her ear. Your lips touch the shell and burst into flames. "Hey, Fabray, wake up."

She groans again, but her eyes don't open. Her fingers tense around yours and you smile shakily.

Remember that time, in New York? When you and Kurt sang on the stage at the Gershwin Theatre? Do you remember that feeling of _home _and _at last _and _where else would I rather be? _Do you remember the way the stage lights were so bright and the words echoed, hauntingly beautiful, and you realised that if there's nothing left for you after this, you'd be fine because this right here—_here, _so close you can feel the pulse of it living in your veins—is all you'll ever need? Yeah, fuck that.

This is the singular most beautiful moment in the history of Rachel Berry: Future Star, because Quinn Fabray is waking up, she's on her way, her hand is in yours and it feels like singing on stage at the Gershwin Theatre but so much more because _she's _so much more. And the thought makes you cry.

ooo

The pressure on your eyelids is lessening, but holy smokes it still hurts like an elephant is kicking it on your skull. And your mouth still tastes like old carpet and everything still aches, and it's worse because that piece of home that was laced through your fingers is gone. And then you can't help but blame yourself for its absence because you can't have perfect things they break and crumble around you. Your eyes need to open please or you think these tears will flood your brain.

Everything is muffled, like you're underwater but that's impossible. One time, Sam told you about an underwater world called Atlantis and you told him to shut up because you couldn't be dating a _geek _(even though you're one, too). This is all very Atlantis. Sam would nod and imitate Sean Connery if he was here.

You think you hear a familiar voice, like the one you've heard in dreams, but you're not sure because Atlantis is messing everything up. You'd like to hear it again _open your eyes, Quinn _but you don't know how to call to it _Quinn, can you hear me _you want it to be whispering in your ear _Q wake the fuck up _you want to know it like you know her smile. _Wake up._

xxx

"Santana, that was entirely uncalled for," you chastise. Santana shrugs and squeezes Brittany's hand, watching the doctor and nurse check Quinn's vitals and poke and prod.

"Bitch never reacts to lovey dovey gentle shit. Get her mad and she's all up on that."

Brittany nods sagely. You cross your arms and huff, "I hardly think demands filled with vulgarity are likely to awaken her from a coma."

"Pardon you, Berry, but my girl is _already _awake, she's just having a little motivational problem with the whole conscious thing," Santana reasons, "and I mean, damn. I fully understand that. Q's life is not on my top ten swaps."

You open your mouth to defend Quinn and her existence, but Brittany beats you to it, "Oh, come on San. Quinn's got us and Puck and Sam and Mercedes, and her mom loves her again, and she gets to see Beth sometimes, and plus Rachel totally loves her back, times like a million."

Santana considers this and nods, "True dat, Britt," before fixing you with a level gaze. "Don't fuck it up, Berry."

You gulp and nod, too busy being terrified to really be all that surprised that Brittany already knew what you only maybe just figured out in the time it takes to drive from City Hall to Lima General. Santana seems pleased with this and turns her attention back to Quinn.

You flounder and do the same. Brittany smiles serenely.

ooo

_Ow. _The fuck is prodding at your chest? The technique is so Finn, blindly blundering and heavy and slightly painful, but that seems wildly inappropriate because of reasons. Rachel, being the main one. You try to voice your displeasure, but all that comes out is a gravelly rasp.

"Q, hurry the fuck up, would you? We've been waiting long enough for your plastic ass."

That voice is familiarly biting, enough so that you recognize the concern underneath. But the voice that comes after is the one you've been dreaming of, the one you've been trying to reach you've been caught adrift.

"Santana, honestly. Have a little tact."

It's huffy and indignant and compassionate and strong and _oh wow _your heart just beat all sorts of funny and man that's bright what the heck why are there needles stabbing into your eyes?

Uniform squares fill your vision and you think you might vomit. You rasp out a protest and suddenly a weathered face with thick glasses is hovering over yours and _you fucking knew Brittany wasn't lying about that spaceship._

"Welcome back, Miss Fabray," the face says and you whine and clamp your eyes shut.

"She never went anywhere," an innocent voice interjects and your eyes open again because—

Stop the presses stop everything stop your _heart _apparently because she's right there like you wished she'd been the whole time but fear and loathing and intense psychological damage kept her away but she's _here _and the light hurts your eyes but you can't tear them away from her.

There's an incessant beeping somewhere to your right and you hear a low chuckle that you recognize as Santana's but that doesn't matter because she's here and you're here and you told her you said "On my way" and so here you are. What a beautiful realization.

"Ra—" you try, but whoa that's hardly a voice. She knows (she always did) and she's at your bedside and her hand is in yours and you think your palm just caught fire.

"I'm here, Quinn," she whispers to you, and now Atlantis is leaking out of your muffled underwater head and down your cheeks because—fuck if that's all you ever wanted, right? "I'm right here."

And she is, you can feel her fingers laced through yours, stitching together and molding into the person you always knew you could be because _she _knew you could be her, too.

"Hi," you manage to rasp, and she lets out a watery chuckle. Her fingers are delicate against your cheek as she pushes your choppy hair back.

"Hi," she whispers back, before, "what took you so long, Quinn?"

You shrug and _holy no don't do that. _She traces your eyebrow and you shut one eye, peering up at her only her. "I," you start, then clear your throat. "I told you," cough, wince, "I was on my way."

She sobs and laughs at the same time and shakes her head and you realise that smiling with a bruised face hurts a lot but you keep doing it because she's here. And so are you.

(_i tell you all the time, "heaven is a place on earth with you")_

* * *

><p><em>yeah...so...<em>

_the title is a line from Lana Del Rey's _"Videogames," _off her album _Born to Die. _:D?_

_love me love me love me._

_- J _


	4. Chapter 4

_brittany pov, cos she's precious._

**Part 4.  
><strong>_sixteen six six six and we'll never part._

You kind of like it here, now. At first, you hated it. It scared you, like that time you and Lord Tubbington decided to read those _Goosebumps _when your parents were at a party. You both got so scared that you had to call Santana and stay on the phone with her until you fell asleep, Lord Tubbington curled up on your chest.

But it's grown on you, now. It's very clean, and you finally figured out the hallways and where the stairs go and what's good in the cafeteria. The nurses know you, and they give you lollipops, and there's a ward full of kids that love to sing and dance with you. Some of them can't dance properly because of their tubes and bags of medicine, but they sway with you and it's fun, and the other kids don't make fun of them, which is a nice change from school. And besides, Quinn is here!

Her room is always kind of cold, so you know to bring your monkey toque and gloves. You think she gets cold sometimes too, so you put your toque on her bruised head. You remember in Cheerios, Quinn would always be so cold when you'd touch her skin, but she never complained. Her choppy lion hair is even choppier now, and you like it. It's always been so soft, and the new haircut the doctors gave her is fun and wild.

Usually, Santana will sit with you for about half an hour. But then suddenly she'll get up and say "I have to pee" or "I forgot my wallet at the front desk" or "Goddamnit, Q," and she won't come back for a really long time. She usually waits for you in the hallway outside Quinn's room. You always greet her with a big hug, because sometimes that's all you can do when things hurt too much. And she'll breathe deeply and kiss your collarbone and say "did you tell her?" and you'll nod and say "yes, San, I always do." And you wonder why she can't say it herself but then you remember how words get stuck in Santana's throat and then force themselves out viciously and all wrong. That's why you say it for her.

You go to see her every single day. Sometimes you go twice a day, and Coach Sylvester doesn't even get mad at you for skipping Cheerios practice because she's always had a soft spot for Quinn, and for you. She just nods her head and her eyes get soft before she turns quickly and says something mean into her megaphone. No one else from Glee goes that often (you think it's because they're scared. You've noticed Puck's knuckles are always bruised and he's stopped smiling), and Ms Fabray usually spends visiting hours in the waiting room with a cold cup of coffee and sad eyes. You tried to talk to her once, but you realised that your hair and Cheerios uniform made her watery and smaller, so you stopped.

The only other person that goes every day is Rachel. When you first saw her, the day after Quinn got out of surgery and put into that place where machines breathe for people, a huge smile burst across your face because _you so knew it _and Santana owes you five bucks and some sweet lady kisses. But then you noticed how slow and sad she was, and how she was still in the hoody and jeans you helped her into before, and how all the lines of her face drooped down toward the floor. And then you realised that that's how you'd look if San were the one in the hospital bed with tubes and wires and bandages. So you hugged her tight and kissed her little head and disappeared, so she could be alone with Quinn.

Then, she appeared every day, and you'd leave early so she could sit with Quinn and tell her all the things she'd wanted to since freshman year because—come _on, _as ifyou missed that look on her face when Quinn walked down the hall. And you thought that Quinn would appreciate that, because you know she's been dying to say all the same things because—really? Who was she trying to fool with those bathroom drawings? Not you, that's for sure.

Sometimes, you'd linger outside Quinn's door and listen to Rachel talk. You're so used to her being loud and big and _there, _so listening to her with Quinn is like listening to a whole other person. She's soft and gentle and delicate with Quinn, like how Santana changes when she's with you. It makes you smile. You think Quinn would be different for Rachel, too, softer, _happier. _

Santana once told you that she has lots of different sides. You looked at her and said "like a dice?" and she said "yeah, kind of" and you said "but some of the sides are just for me, right?" and she smiled and said "yeah." You think that it's the same with Rachel. You think that normally, everyone sees the loud and annoying girl with Broadway ideas and weird sweaters (you totally loved the owl one), when really there's a whole bunch of different pieces to her. You think maybe she's like a puzzle. Quinn's always been really smart. You don't think it'll be a problem for her to connect the pieces.

Today, you're sitting with Quinn. Santana left about ten minutes ago to "change her socks," so you and Q have just been hanging out. Her hand is soft and her fingers are really long, and you remember when she used to play piano. It always looked like her fingers weren't even touching the keys she was so good. You and Santana would sometimes go to her house while she was practicing, and you'd hide in the hallway and listen-your eyes wide and your chests filling with warm bubbly feelings-before she eventually realised you were there and stopped.

She always did that. She'd never let you listen, and Santana would make that angry throat sound that usually meant she was disappointed or upset but didn't want to tell anyone and say "whatever Q, pianos for freaks like Berry anyway" and Quinn would blush and change the subject. You loved the way she played though (it reminded you of how you dance), and you think Rachel would, too.

It isn't very cold in her room today, because the sun is trying to come out and the blinds are cracked. Your monkey toque is on the chair next to you. You're telling Quinn about your theories about llamas and alpacas and pretending you aren't waiting for her to talk back when Rachel bursts into the room. She's late, you notice.

Then she freezes and you're reminded of that movie you watched, about Muppets and how, when they talk, their mouths don't make the shapes of the letters. Rachel reminds you of that right now, and before you know it your mouth is Muppeting away and you're telling her about Lord Tubbington and strings. She nods, but she hasn't looked at you yet. You don't mind, because she's looking at Quinn.

"Brittany," she says quietly. She sounds like she might cry. "Is she…?"

You look at Quinn and realise that she is maybe about to answer your earlier question about God and his opinion on cat heaven, _finally_. You've been especially worried, seeing as Lord Tubbington isn't exactly a young cat anymore. "Oh, yeah, she's waking up," and then, "don't you hate when you sleep for so long that you don't know what time it is and you aren't sure if you should have breakfast or lunch or maybe even dinner?"

Sometimes, your mouth moves before you actually tell it to and you end up saying things like that. Santana calls it your word vomit. She likes it. Rachel just kind of looks at you, then back to Quinn like the sky is falling.

She makes a weird noise, like the one Lord Tubbington makes when he's hungry _and _sad—a whinging cry that's also kind of muffled—and so you say, "Well, aren't you gonna hold her hand, Rachel?" because you know she's been _dying _to be that for Quinn, and Quinn does have very nice hands, and Rachel's are so small. You think they'd fit together nicely.

Her feet don't listen to her brain right away, and then they do and she's launching herself at Quinn's other hand. You don't leave her alone with Q this time because you missed her so much, so you get to hear Rachel's words up close. She's muttering something about _home _and _storms _and other stuff you don't understand, and her eyes on her and Quinn's interlaced fingers are bright and wet. They look beautiful together, you think, like that feeling of when you go away from home for a really long time and then finally you get to come back, but this time you can see it.

A terrifying groan comes out of Quinn's mouth and for a split second you're absolutely certain she's become a zombie. But then Rachel leans in and her dark waterfall hair makes a curtain and she's whispering to Quinn, softly, like the voices on the mix cd Santana made you. Quinn grumbles some more and scrunches her face.

"She's not a morning person, is she?" Her grumbly noises remind you of Lord Tubbington and his recent dependence on caffeine, and you tell Rachel so. She smiles softly and brushes Quinn's choppy hair. You hear her smile when she says "hey sleepyhead" and traces Quinn's lip.

You go to get the doctor and find Santana standing completely still in the hallway. She's stiff and frozen and you have to tug on her earlobe to get her to respond to you.

"Is she…" she starts, and you realise she's having that throat-word problem again. You wait for her to try again. "Shit, B, is she awake?" Santana looks scared.

"Not yet. I think she's in that almost space, you know?"

Santana nods and looks past you. You see her throat bob with her swallow before she blinks hard and tugs on your hand. "Let's get the doctor, hey?"

You want Rachel to hurry up and get her sweet lady kisses on so you can hug Q, but there's tears and laughing and awkward hospital bed hugs and it's all taking _so long, _so you give up waiting and wrap your arms around Rachel to reach Quinn. Rachel squeaks and Quinn groans, but her fingers brush past your ear so you know she missed you too.

"Hey, B," she says in that new voice of hers. You pull back and wave, your arms still around Rachel, who still has Quinn's hand in hers.

"About fucking time," Santana mumbles from behind you. You roll your eyes and tug on her arm, pulling her to Q's bedside. They have a weird friendship, and sometimes it makes your stomach all rumbley. But this time you know Santana's just being Santana and Quinn's just being Quinn, so when Santana rolls her eyes and says "hey, preggo, when I said 'do something about this unholy matrimony,' I did not mean get hit by a truck. Dumbass," you know she means "I love you." And so does Quinn, because she rolls her eyes right back and says, "fuck you, bitch."

Rachel makes a noise and gives Quinn a scrunched eyebrow look. "Is that language entirely necessary?"

"Calm your tits, RuPaul," Santana says, refilling Quinn's cup. You smile at the term of endearment.

Quinn's been out of the hospital for two days now. She has to be in a robot chair like Artie's because her spine got hurt in the crash. You like the wheelchair because you always thought Quinn and Artie could be great friends and now they have something in common, but it makes Quinn sad (even though she pretends she's fine) so you don't say anything about it. Santana cried for a long time when the doctors told Quinn she'd need the chair. Quinn didn't cry. She didn't do anything at all. Rachel held her hand as she stared out the window at the cloudy sky.

You think that, even though the robot chair makes Quinn sad and angry and sharp, Rachel makes her happy and gentle and fluffy and maybe that's enough. Also, you know she's going to be dancing again, because she's Quinn Fabray and since when has anything stopped her? and because her and Rachel are totally a double rainbow but gayer and happier and cooler, and those singing Beatles did say that _all you need is love, _and these days, you think, Quinn's got that in spades.

Also Lord Tubbington totally knows these things, and he told you so. You're not going to bet against him, that's for sure.

* * *

><p><em>part 4 title is a line from sleigh bells "rill rill," off their album "treats."<br>if you haven't already, check out all these songs yo they're great._

_xo Jasper_


	5. Chapter 5

_halla. i don't know how this happened, but now there's more. and Santana's pov got heavier than the others, also, but it had to happen._

* * *

><p><strong><em><em>Part 5.  
><strong>_you can only hold a smile for so long, after that it's just teeth._

Santana is pretty sure the Big G has got some kind of hate-on for Lucy Q, 'cause that girl can just _not _catch a break (which seems ironic, seeing as all of her is literally broken). It makes her breath catch in her throat to see Quinn in that fucking chair, because she's a dancer and she's a runner and goddamn it she's a _fighter _and how on earth is she meant to fight when she can't even stand? Her fists clench every time she catches Quinn staring forlornly at her useless legs, and decides that if Quinn can't fight, she sure as hell will.

By the third week of Hospital Livin' featuring Lucy Q, Santana can say with certainty she has never hated a place more. Each time she goes to see Quinn, curled up in her hospital bed looking smaller than Santana's ever seen her, something inside of her chest crumbles and shatters and it's so hard to breathe she just ends up choking out words that are harsh and sarcastic, when all she really wants to say is "thank you god for not letting her die" or "I love you, you dramatic bitch."

Quinn knows, of course, that she can't say all the things she wants to, and just grimaces (her new form of a smile; despite the contortion, it's so much truer than any smile she's seen before). Santana grimaces back and tangles her fingers through Quinn's, and thinks back to the times when those fingers would fly gracefully over a piano or curl beautifully around a pencil, and whole new worlds would be created in her wake. It hurts.

That fucking chair has become the bane of her existence. Quinn is tall and Quinn is strong and Quinn is so much better than this, but in that chair Quinn is small and Quinn is tired and Quinn is broken. Santana stays with her after each grueling physical therapy session (sitting in a chair for thirty minutes at a time has never been so goddamn heartbreaking as it is for Quinn), and holds her hand as Quinn rages and cries and just fucking _breaks. _

Brittany is with her the day Quinn is finally released from the hospital. She has to be wheeled out in that stupid chair, and she's pale and thin and tiny, and her fingers clench tightly around the Pablo Neruda anthology she insisted Rachel grab from her bedside table in her room at home (it was a home now, Santana realised, built from a million new beginnings) but she's also alive, beautifully, noticeably, strikingly _alive, _and Santana tightens her grip around the handles of her wheelchair to keep from crying. Brittany skips beside them and Rachel walks ahead with Judy (she's Judy now, softer and apparent), holding Quinn's bag of necessities and glancing back every three steps.

Puck and Sam and Joe all helped Judy move Quinn's stuff into the guest bedroom on the first floor. Puck made sure to keep the Jesus picture up in her old room, because he knew Quinn's issues with that guy were pretty big and heavy and paralyzed right now, and Santana could kiss him for that (she won't, of course, but the sentiment's still there). Quinn stiffens when she is wheeled into her new room, her eyes scanning the furniture and walls and floor, and Santana's heart breaks all over again because Quinn is alive but Quinn is also so horrendously broken, and she's never known how to fix that (she's hoping maybe Rachel does).

Quinn's quiet voice thanks them all, and Brittany grins and kisses her cheek before grabbing Santana's hand and tugging her out of the room. Rachel lags behind, watching Quinn as Quinn tries to pretend she's fine, that all of this is _fine_, that it doesn't fucking _kill _to be here right now, a floor lower than she's used too (it seems she just keeps falling).

Santana lingers in the doorway and watches as Rachel hesitantly steps forward and rests a hand on Quinn's thin shoulder, watches as Quinn turns her head and grips her hand firmly with her artist's fingers, watches as something so new but so old and ancient and haunting is born from twisted metal and compressed spines and silent words stitched into deep gashes, holding Quinn together while she is torn apart. Santana feels her eyes fill with tears and hopes and all those words that come out _wrong, _and she wishes against all odds that Quinn can feel it, even if her legs can't.

It's been two weeks since Quinn was released. Santana spends all her time not spent at school or with the Cheerios at Quinn's, watching Hitchcock movies and sitting on the porch and reading cummings aloud as Quinn rests her head on Rachel's lap and closes her eyes. Those times, when Quinn is silent and peaceful, Santana can almost pretend that she's not also devastatingly broken and torn and rebuilt (with metal and pins and Rachel's soft words and fingers tangled through her own); but then Brittany trips over her deadweight legs and Quinn doesn't even flinch, her eyes still closed. Brittany stares at Quinn's legs with a perplexed look and Santana squeezes her eyes shut to keep the tears at bay, because—_fuck._ Just…fuck.

Rachel pretends that nothing happened, keeps running her fingers rhythmically through Quinn's soft short hair, keeps humming Bloc Party quietly as Quinn lies on the porch. It's a beautiful scene; if Santana didn't know any better, she'd say this was the perfect spring day, she'd say they had just come back from a nice day at the park, she'd say they had been running and laughing and she'd say they had danced, and she'd say Quinn is _fine. _

But Santana does know better—a collapsed feeling under her skin like she's too _old—_so instead she takes a deep breath and keeps reading. Brittany smiles sadly at her and she pretends some more.

It's a Tuesday, some time around 6:43p.m., when Santana sees Quinn break.

Two weeks and five days since she was released, Quinn and Santana are in Quinn's room studying and waiting for Rachel to finish voice lessons and Brittany to finish ballet (don't ask Santana how the hobbit burrowed her way in, but she did, and Santana can't find it in her to complain, because she makes Quinn brighten in a way only Beth has managed). Quinn is lying on her stomach, a pillow under her chin as she scribbles in her English notebook; Santana is on the floor in the same position, though she's more watching Quinn's fingers flex around the pencil and remembering the haunting way they once flexed over piano keys or into fists—and then Quinn's phone rings. It's across the room, on Quinn's desk. Quinn stops writing, her shoulders stiffening, and her eyes land heavily on the phone ten feet away.

Santana can see the heartbreak in her eyes, the rage and the incredible exhaustion, so she stands to grab Quinn's phone.

"No," she hears from behind her, and she glances back to see Quinn pushing herself up on the bed, the muscles in her forearms rippling as she physically grabs her useless legs and pulls them around to hang over the edge of the bed. "I can get it."

Santana nods slowly and watches as Quinn steadies herself and reaches for the crutches she's been trying _so hard _to use (it's never enough, and that in itself is the saddest truth she's known). Her fingers wrap solidly around the cold metal; her eyes glimmer in a way that reminds Santana of hot summers and expectations. Quinn takes a deep breath, and Santana can see it fill her lungs and it tears at her chest, knowing that this is absolutely killing Quinn. She's always done things _alone_; the idea of needing help for the simplest tasks must strike her down each time, harder than any fist against her.

She stays silent and standing. She watches. She tries not to cry, instead focusing on the determination and how it makes her stomach clench and her throat tighten, how it reminds her of the Quinn that was there after the Hallway and after the Birth and after Russell. Quinn's the strongest person she's known, and sometimes it takes her breath away.

Quinn takes another steadying breath and pushes herself up, balancing precariously on those two crutches. Santana can see her muscles quiver with the effort, see her jaw tighten and her eyes flash with that rage Santana knows she holds, knows she struggles to quell (tiny reaching fingers, angry hard fists, pink hair dye and curling smoke—she knows), and she can see the moment when it all becomes _too much_.

Quinn's left arm buckles and she goes down, hard. A soft whimper escapes her throat and her right arm catches her before her face makes contact with the floor. Neither of them says anything for an endless moment, the infinite silence between heartbeats, and then suddenly a crutch is being tossed across a room and a strangled cry is tearing itself from inside Quinn's throat (Santana swears she can hear the shredding flesh, the ruptured veins, the absolute limit of a heart).

Santana kneels next to Quinn and places a hand on her trembling shoulder, but Quinn violently (achingly, _angrily_) shrugs her off and punches the carpeted floor.

"Fuck!" she shouts into the carpet, her voice torn and shattered and muffled. Santana bites down on her fist, _hard_, trying to keep her own heart from ripping itself up from her chest and spilling out her mouth onto the floor next to Quinn's.

"Fuck." It's quieter, and more broken than Santana can handle. She thinks of tired eyes and of weary souls, and of reinvention, and of _too much_, and so she grabs Quinn under the arms and hauls her back up, sitting her back on the bed despite Quinn's protests.

"No, Santana! I can do it!" she insists, her fists banging against Santana's chest and her voice breaking. Her eyes are bright and glistening and so fucking haunted that Santana chokes on god knows what (her indignation? her fear? the unfairness of it all?). Quinn's fists against her are like a declaration, hard and uncompromising and solid; she's a fighter, always has been.

"I can do it," Quinn says again, quieter and tearfully and so fucking sad. She looks at Santana then, very seriously. Santana sees the world in her eyes, and fuck if she's never seen anything more tragic. "Santana," she whispers, and Santana sees the words falter and die on her lips, and she _knows. _They're eighteen, for god's sake. They shouldn't have to know.

"Goddamn, Q," she says instead, and wraps her arms around Quinn's shaking shoulders. Quinn's not strong enough, so Santana will be.

* * *

><p><em>this turned into more. i don't know how. it might keep going, so...yes.<br>title is a quote from Chuck Palahniuk's _Invisible Monsters _because it's beautiful and haunting and i have been rereading it for like a year now._

**_  
><em>**_love J._


	6. Chapter 6

_Quinn, second person pov. I think this is the last one. thanks for reading! let me know what you thought._

* * *

><p><strong>Part 6.<br>**_you keep ending up in my shaking hands._

Your phantom limbs have been aching constantly, lately. All those bits and pieces of you, scattered about (pieces in a crib in a house that isn't yours, bits forever ingrained in the voice of an angel) are screaming for you to take notice, and you're just _so tired_.

You unconsciously reach for the cross around your neck and come up empty handed. A dull thrum in the tips of your fingers reminds you of the faith you had, but you're not sure if it's still there. You think maybe you lost your faith when you lost your legs (or your daughter or your home or your heart to a tiny Jewish teenager).

Your room is now downstairs, in what used to be the guest bedroom. The Glee boys tried to make it yours, but you know the difference—a flight of stairs. A gentle hand rests on your shoulder and you feel your chest ignite, feel wings you didn't know you possessed flutter and spread. She's here. You're fine.

"Do you like it?" she asks in that quiet way she has, when she is around you. You think she feels it too, this oppressive weight that's pressing down on your chest and flattening your lungs until you can't breathe or speak without cracking.

Or maybe she just doesn't feel the need to be big and bright and viciously present when she's with you. You hope it's the second one.

"It's nice," you say, your hand reaching up to grip hers. The holes in your chest lessen when her fingers rub your knuckles. You breathe.

The chair is both incredible and awful. It's incredible because you're alive, more so than you've been since you gave up a piece of yourself to a family that wasn't yours. You're vibrantly, beautifully, strikingly _alive. _But you're also stuck in a fucking wheelchair.

You spend your days in physical therapy and on your back porch, Rachel's hand on your shoulder or in your hair or laced through your fingers and your muscles slowly remembering, slowly reforming, slowly becoming the person she knew you could be all along. It's not what you're used to, this state of being in which you're not constantly hating yourself, but it's nice. You breathe. You hear Rachel breathe, too.

Sometimes, everything is _too much_. On those days, you lock yourself in your room with your books and your words and you cry. Sometimes you throw things, but mostly you just cry. It's on one of these days that Rachel ignores the Closed Door and walks determinedly into the room and crouches next to you (fucking _crouches_) and takes your hand. Says, "Oh, Quinn." Says, "I'm here."

Your tears are hot and weighted and so fucking necessary; Rachel brushes your hair from your face and traces your brow and holds your hand, whispers words into your ears that sound like lullabies. You grip her hand, hard, and you _cry_.

She climbs onto your lap (you wish you could feel that) and wraps her arms around you and you cry. She says, "I'm so sorry." She says, "I'm here." Her sweater catches your tears.

It's a Saturday, sometime around 1:28 in the afternoon, when you finally break. It's you and Rachel today—Brittany and Santana have mandatory Saturday Cheerios practice—and you're spending the day in Rachel's backyard. You're spread out on a blanket, your useless legs lagging behind you. Rachel has your head in her lap and she's twisting the strands through her fingers as she listens to you read aloud.

When you were younger, your favourite books were the Chronicles of Narnia. Maybe you identified with Lucy Pevensie, or maybe you wished you could stroll through a wardrobe into a world so unlike your own; maybe it was the lion. You could lose yourself for hours in the pages of those books, immersed fully in that world that was magical and brave and anywhere-but-here.

You have been wishing for an escape like that since you turned fourteen and a different girl celebrated your birthday; a thin girl, a beautiful girl. And now you have Rachel—the curve of her jaw, the slope of her nose, the butterflies you get when she sings—and you think maybe this time it's not so much an escape as it is a homecoming.

Her fingers still in your hair when you stop reading. You can almost feel her curious expression, see the tilt of her head and the pursing of her lips. "What's wrong?" she asks.

You push yourself up into a sitting position, ignoring the twinge in your back and Rachel's proffered help. Forcibly turning your body to face her, you place your book to the side and consider Rachel.

She's quite wonderful, you know. She's gentle and she's warm and she's so very earnest. Her heart is very big and her soft hands make you feel more human than you ever have (you're no longer a pillar of salt—you think maybe you're a bit more solid than that). And when you were told you might never walk again (fuck those guys, you so will), Rachel was there, and Rachel was beautiful, and Rachel was warm. She held you up and she stitched you together with her soft sighs and her gentle words and she knit your bones back into place, delicately, _truly_. She filled your veins with life and with love, she wrapped around your heart and squeezed and you hear her name with every beat. You see her against your eyelids.

Sitting on the blanket with your useless legs and your compressed spine and your endless words and tangled tongue, you consider Rachel. She's staring at you with a confused look on her face. Her hands are fluttering at her sides—she's stunning.

You think to yourself, you think, "self! If you don't do it now, you never will, and Self, I'll be honest, I'll resent you for the rest of your miserable life." And so with a firm nod and some serious core strength, you stretch across the small space between you (oceans and deserts and aisles lined with gardenias) and you trace her cheek and you kiss her. She gasps and kisses you back, and shut the front door you can't believe it took you _this fucking long_.

You don't want to stop (ever), but you do. Pressing your lips to hers once more, softly, you pull away and settle back, your fingers playing with her sock.

"Hi," you say.

"H-hi," she says.

You breathe.

xxx.

"About fucking time, Blondie," Santana growls into the phone. "You freak the fuck out—for a fully valid reason, let me remind you—avoid me for days like some kind of pre-teen fuckwad, and then I have hear from Berry—_Berry, _Quinn—that you took your first fucking steps like a goddamn newborn giraffe and _didn't tell me_. The actual fuck, Q."

You frown. Rachel giggles and tugs your lip back up with her finger, smiling when you try to nip her finger. "Sorry, S," you say, pinching Rachel's side when she tries to kiss your grin.

"Sorry? _Sorry? _ Are you kidding me, Juno? I was worried. I was ready to raid the Fabray hovel with Papi's 9millimetre. I was gonna go all sorts of rogue, and you can only say _sorry?_" She breathes heavily into the phone, and suddenly you feel horrible.

"'Ana," you say, quietly. "I'm sorry. I just—I was embarrassed, about what happened, and…fuck, S. I'm sorry." Rachel squeezes your hand and gets up.

"Good luck," she whispers, kissing the shell of your ear. You blush and duck your head, shooing her away.

"Embarrassed? Chica, it's me. I've seen you pregnant and sobbing and covered in slushie—which, by the way, is a lot more embarrassing than coming to terms with the fact your legs are deadweight." In the background you hear Brittany grunt her disapproval. "You're my girl, Q. How dare you forget that."

You smile into the receiver, "I know. You gets yours, am I right?"

She snorts. "You're so painfully Caucasian. But yeah, fuckin' rights, Q." Silence, then, "So…you walked?"

A grin splits your face as you nod your head vigorously. "I walked. I mean, it's not much, just a step, but Ana—Ana, I _walked._" You practically hear her smiling, and then you say, "And guess what else?"

"Don't play those fucking guessing games with me, Lucy Q."

You glance at the door and press the phone closer to your face. "I kissed her."

Santana doesn't say anything for a moment, and then, "Oh my god, is _that _the reason I haven't seen you in four days? You've been lezzing it up with the Hobbit?"

You hear Brittany squeal, "finally!" in the background and you roll your eyes. "Fuck _you, _Santana, no. I mean, I only just did it, today. But, I mean…if I can walk, what can't I do?"

"That's my fucking girl, oh captain my captain. Hells yes! It's about fucking time, Fabray, your ladywood for the midget has been glaringly obvious since freshman year."

"Shut up, Santana. These things take time, and I had a few roadblocks, if you recall."

"Oh, is that what we're calling teen pregnancy and the most pressed of lemons?"

"Yes."

"Word up." Then, "I'm proud of you, Q."

You smile a small, delicate smile and think of the girl on the other side of the door. "Yeah," you say. "Me, too."

You breathe.

* * *

><p><em>title for part 6 is from Bon Iver's <em>A Song for a Lover of Long Ago_.  
>thanks team, let me know what you thought!<em>

_xo Jasper_


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